Oh fuck oh shit oh fuck oh damn oh hell oh fuck oh shit oh fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, Tommy told himself not to think. Was the night really this sticky-hot, or was it his nerves? A sweaty man walked past. A few women in V-neck crop tops and cutoff shorts. Nothing out of the ordinary. Well. Tommy felt out of the ordinary. Olly’s. He just had to get to Olly’s. As soon as he got to Olly’s, he’d be on autopilot.
He’d practiced the plan in his mind so many times.
It was somehow louder outside than in the music venue. Was there a train coming? Tommy talked to himself over the deafening noise: you’re a smart guy. Those are your friends back there. You’re lucky to have some brains and friends. Use that big brain to cook up some tasty food, make people happy. Make friends. You took this diner job because you know what’s important: feeding good hardworking salt-of-the-earth people tasty food at a fair price. You’re not some corporate climber. You’re not some Food Network faker. You’re not some loud and wrong Tik Tok influencer. You’re smart enough to understand things. All you need in life is good food and good friends, which you have. See how Martín loaned you the key?
How had he lived all day with that body jammed up in that locker? Now that he was here, though, he had to be a little proud of himself. He’d bet big on that locker room staying empty all day. Now look at him. El cocinero asesino.
For real, no more, he thought to himself.
Still, though.
Tommy—what else was there to say? Tommy was smart. Not a guy to brag about his IQ, but probably smarter than most. And the people were always people who deserved it. Never vanity projects. That Chili’s GM was a racist. Gerry was an entitled landlord, an aspiring petty chieftain who believed himself lord of the neighborhood. Same with John, anyone who acts like that to people who handle their food deserves what’s coming.
And Diego? Tommy could just tell that entitled, lazy jagoff had a dark future. No one ever turns out well if they have everything handed to them. Especially at 19 or whatever. They become the worst kind of managers, the veneer-smiling belt-clip cell phone guys who change schedules without notice but still call employees “family.” Diego was headed there, Tommy could tell.
For real, though. No more.
Sweating. Could not stop sweating. Cicada hums echoed between buildings and people listened to music on portable speakers bungee-corded to bikes. At the end of the alley, a cop car glided past, lights on no siren. Didn’t the socialist mayor abolish the police? Tommy thought. He waited until the lights completely faded, then grabbed the tarp from the trunk.
He’d rented a Zipcar. An unassuming, forgettably dark blue Honda Accord, something dependable, with trunk space, but not “obvious body hiding” trunk space. There were a couple loading spaces in the back of the restaurant, somewhere inconspicuous he could park. He’d walked the 10 minutes over to Alewives, begged Martín for the keys, counted on Martín’s kindness, counted on their friendship, and had been right to believe.
When he got the locker open, what was inside wasn’t Diego anymore. Sure, it still looked like him, but this stinking, dried-blood board of stiff muscle that Tommy hauled out of the locker couldn’t bus a dining room. No more chopping produce for you, vato. No. This wasn’t human, this was a pile of waste. Tommy rolled it up in the tarp and dragged the whole thing upstairs. His back strained like he’d just pulled a Saturday double and his knees felt like he was back in culinary school and had been ordered to scrub the reach-ins.
Something in his spine definitely seized up when he lifted the thing into the trunk. Every muscle in his back screaming, he walked a few wincing steps with one shoulder hunched. He was sure he was a goner, but the pain passed after a long, corrective stretch.
He had to force what used to be Diego’s legs to bend to fit everything in the trunk, and he heard what he was sure was a bone breaking. He watched the tarp for a minute, saw no leaking blood, and closed the trunk lid.
The simplest dishes require the most attention. The fewer steps in preparation, the more care required for each one. Good caramelized onions didn’t happen by accident. Disposing of a body was not as simple as wrapping it in tarp, putting it in the trunk of a car, and dumping it in the river. Yet those were the three steps.
Tommy figured the north branch of the river. The main branch was downtown and the south branch was either downtown or too far to get to, but the north branch had plenty of tree-shaded spots, plenty of areas to remain unseen. Tommy figured down by the Salt Shed. There had been a few bodies turned up there recently. Tommy figured his body could get lost in the shuffle with the others.
First, he had to clean. Body in the trunk, now downstairs needed attention. There was a little blood in the locker, but the worst part was that the body had voided its bowels. How everyone had gone a whole dinner shift not investigating the shit smell in the locker room, Tommy didn’t care too much to think about. He cleaned with bleach. Found some matches and lit a few. He got out the big box fan they used to dry out when big rains made the drains back up. He’d even cut up a few lemons, squeezing the juice in and around the lockers. He had some towels going in the washing machine. He could dump the body, come back, and put them in the dryer.
He’d worked quickly, but was still surprised at how long it didn’t take. He’d channeled the spirit of every efficient busser he’d ever seen speedwalking 40 pounds of piled plates, every dishwasher racing the clock to get the night’s last load in, every grill guy turning 200 tickets a night. Cleaning almost happened too fast—had he forgotten something? But the basement was sparkling, maybe suspiciously sparkling.
An unmistakable click, unlatch, and the whine of a hinge needing WD40 came from upstairs.
Someone had opened the back door.
Tommy lunged for the basement light. Turned it off. No. If someone’s upstairs, they’d notice the light going out. Light back on.
He pressed against the basement wall, not hidden or hiding, just grabbing wall while his mind raced. Who was here? Had someone followed him?
Had Diego gotten up out of the trunk?
Tommy was smart. He was prepared for a situation like this. Every slasher movie, there’s a body that gets up and walks again. Mob movies, the guy’s still breathing. That wasn’t happening on Tommy’s watch. He would kill Diego and make sure the motherfucker was gone.
Scanning the room, he didn’t see anything to use as a weapon. A woozy, half-dead body, though? Tommy figured he could one-two punch it and choke the leftover life out. No muss, no fuss.
“Tommy?” a voice called from the top of the stairs.
Mara was here.